Laura Kemp: My son's first day at school is one of my saddest

Ttoday there are no jokes.

My son has walked out of my waking hours into his own private world, leaving me empty and grieving for my constant companion of the last four, nearly five, years.

His first day at school has hit me like a tonne of Lego bricks.

Yes, I know. I didn’t think I’d feel like this either seeing as my parenting modus operandi has always been about trying to get out of parenting.

A grandparent rings to offer a sleepover and I’ve pulled the car into their drive, pressing my son’s ejector seat button before they’ve put the phone down.

A friend asks if he’d like to come over for tea and I drop him off, making my excuses that I won’t stay because I’m full, having bitten their arm off.

My husband takes a breath at about half seven and I run to the loo and lock myself in, shouting “IT’S YOUR TURN TO PUT HIM TO BED”.

I’ve done that because I’ve always known this child is mine, no one else’s, and it’s only been a short-term loan, even to his father.

But from today, he is no longer exclusively my property. And there’s a little-boy-sized hole in my body.

My husband doesn’t get it at all because I am always at the end of my tether.

The school holidays have been a challenge; as nice as it was to spend all day with my son at the start, it became not that nice. He is bored of me and I’m tired. The routine of no routine has turned me into a nag and him into a wild thing. It’s become about killing time; forcing him into a bath when he’s already had a shower after swimming, driving the long route back from somewhere to reduce the minutes before bedtime, the purchase of an unnecessary comic because we’ve had tea and there’s still hours of the day left. I even cleaned the oven this summer just so I could get out of entertainment duties.

“He needs school and you get to have some time to yourself,” my husband states quite correctly. “The days will whizz by, you get him back every afternoon and by Sunday night you’ll be delighted it’s almost Monday morning again.”

This is all true.

And yet I’m overwhelmed by loss – a sickly feeling in my stomach, my heartbeat thumping in my throat, my eyes on the verge of tears at the thought of my son clutching his lunchbox in line, his warm little hand slipping away from mine as he troops off into reception with his friends, probably not looking back but if he does, giving me a brave wave as he crosses the traverse into his own life.

The thing with this vacuum is that you can’t fill it. Work and lunch will have a good try. Then gradually it will subside, pop out for a while, giving you the impression it’s gone for good. But it will be back for the next empty nest milestone. I know I need to pull myself together. And I will.

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